Yes, it is due to school. I am now only going to be in school 3 days per week, rather than 5 and will have to make up the missing classes starting in January. At least I get a long weekend every week now. I did have a MUCH better day today though, thank you.

Last April, Lady Friend bought me a bulk supply of Cadbury Eggs. I filled up my Halloween candy bowl with them, running my fingers happily through the bounty of fifty hard, colorful foil forms, and dreamed of the (totally innocent) pleasure that lay before me*. Two days later, I went primal.

Instead of running out of Eggs by May, I have made it to the end of September. One remains, and I can’t bring myself to unwrap it. There is a possibility that this may be the last one I ever enjoy, seeing as I already sacrificed curly fries on the primal pyre. Next spring, I may take a bite of a Cadbury Egg and find it too sweet, and wonder why I ever liked them. So I’ve been rolling this egg around the bowl in the pantry, unable to eat it, and unable to forget that it is there.

An era may be passing. I think that I should earn this last Egg, in honor of a lifelong infatuation, and because I have nothing better to do anyway. So this Egg will be delivered unto the acidic grave of my gullet on November 1st, provided that I complete the Trials By Fire, listed below.

A: Read the most boring book known to humanity. A friend loaned it to me months ago and she wants it back, and she’ll also want to talk about it. The book is on an interesting topic, but the writing is so dull and thick that Gay Panda can’t get to the second paragraph. For months now, I have been putting the book in places where I will notice it, in the hopes that guilt will compel me to try again, but instead, I put magazines on top of it and forget that it’s there until I clean.

B: Exercise every other day, both on the primal treadmill and heavy lifting the kitty. Because Lady Friend shall one day read this, and she nags all the time not to neglect my stretches, I will tack on that exercise only counts if I stretch afterwards. Just thinking ‘stretches’, like I did today, will not count.

C: I have spent the last four-and-a-half years crafting this series, and I am far more proud of it than my bachelor’s degree. I have never had so much fun writing, even when the plotting needed intricate work, and when the research sent me after obscure books. It’s hard to keep slogging after publication, especially after the last one blew up in my face, but for this month I will respect all the research and plotting and hours upon hours that went into this work, and send out query letters to agents, one a week, instead of avoiding the whole matter entirely.

D: Floss. On alternating days with exercise, since I hate flossing like other people hate running from armed IRS audit agents with grudges and bad hair days. The creepy sensation of rubbing thread against my gums makes me want to howl. Gay Panda refuses to leave this earthly existence until some scientist, no matter how crackpot, declares that flossing causes cancer. Then I can die vindicated.

So it’s a 30-Day Challenge, Panda Style. We’ve already started off on the wrong foot, since October has 31 days, but since Gay Panda has a contrary streak, this suits me perfectly.

UPDATE: (in explanation of *) F%$@ you, Rod. F%$@ you for making me look at my favorite candy that way. I hope that you and your nasty girlfriend get yeast infections. If I can’t have that, then I hope a malevolent spirit possesses the Egg you two are about to defile, and punishes you for all the evil things that you have done in your pervy lives. I hope that after the Egg is inserted, it explodes.

Bread Pusher just brought over bread. Sigh. I love you, Bread, and you are the exact kind that I like, white and fluffy and fresh and devoid of nutrition. But you do not love me back. You make me 231 panda pounds, while meat and fruit and the occasional veggie make me 188.4. All my internal Mr. Magazine Times are telling me right now that it won't hurt me to eat you, but Mr. Magazine Time lies. He wants me to be fat just as much as I want me to be normal.

I feel like I'm back in high school, writhing in the torment of unrequited love. I'm going to make a big buttery rib eye and pretend that the bread is not sitting on my counter. But it is, and my body is clamoring for it right now. This sucks.